Have you ever had that feeling...the one where you feel as though you're driving pedal to the metal, balls to the wall down the freeway when the horrifying realization that you never actually learned to drive slams into your brain like a brick wall?
No? Just me then I guess. Because that pretty much sums up how I've felt about life lately. Somehow, someone decided it was a good idea to allow me to get behind the wheel and actually drive this meat-wagon around without a license.
Mostly, I do a pretty good job of it, have a great time doing it, and can even, usually, parallel park. But there have been times...times like...
When I dove headfirst into the SoCal punk rock life...climbed my first barbed wire fence and subsequently tore my drawers.
When I belly-flopped smack dab into the middle of the local leather scene, quit my job, got rid of all my stuff and moved up to the mountains to experience the life 24/7 before hightailing it back to Denver after only a few disastrous months.
And now. Having danced along the periphery of another counter-culture for awhile - a counter-culture known to be occasionally full of dickery and one-up-manship, I finally kicked off my flip flops and did my best cannonball from a 30-foot cliff right into the eye of a hurricane.
And all of a sudden, the icy-cold knowledge that I can't drive hit me.
Let's face it. I couldn't hack my way out of a cardboard box if you left the lid open and handed me a machete fresh off the whetstone. I'm just THAT good. Heh.
Apparently I do have something going for me.
I make people laugh.
I make people talk.
I make people like me.
I make people trust me.
I make them love me.
For no reason.
I'm just that good.
And I'm gonna be fine.